


the only prayer i know

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crying, D/s, Kneeling, M/M, No Sex, Shoe Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:34:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: “Not now,” John says. “When I’ve earned it.”





	the only prayer i know

A pinging sound comes from the computer, and Harold - who was very nearly slouching, much to John’s amusement - sits up straight. “Well, that should take care of it,” Harold says.

John is a little fuzzy on the details. He’s a little fuzzy in general - neither of them has gotten much sleep over the last couple of days. The last part had been all Harold, while John fetched tea and cheerfully ignored Harold telling him to get some rest. “What did you do, exactly?”

“Oh, this and that,” Harold says. “A little software solution - fairly tidy, though I say so myself. Now Ms. Grant should have ample warning whenever Mr. Bennington is anywhere in her vicinity. We would be alerted as well, of course, and you could be immediately dispatched to assist if there was need.” He sounds pleased with himself, and relieved.

John doesn’t like that Bennington is still at large, but he’s not actually a fatal threat to Marjorie Grant. That was Bennington’s brother, which they’d disposed of; Bennington himself is mostly an irritant.

Still, it gets under his skin. Makes him want to do something, like go out for a long run, maybe….

Or maybe go down to his knees, right here, and lay his head in Harold’s lap. That’s pretty tempting, which is one reason John is leaning more towards the run plan. Maybe a couple miles in the cold would make John feel like he’s earned Harold’s gentle hands on him. “I think I better go,” John says abruptly.

Harold turns around in his desk chair, eyes narrowed. “I strongly hope that you mean to go home to sleep.”

“Something like that.”

Harold holds up one finger, and John stalls in his track. “Come here,” he tells John. John goes. Harold takes John’s hand between his. “You wouldn’t happen to be trying to avoid asking me for anything, would you, John?”

John used to be a spy. He can control his breathing, his heartbeat, long enough to get out of this conversation. “Why would I do that?”

Harold squeezes his hand. “If that’s the case,” he goes on, as if John has not spoken, “you get to do as you choose, of course. But I hope you’ll take into account that I find it deeply moving whenever you do choose to ask what you need of me, and deeply rewarding to give it to you.”

John doesn’t mean to go to his knees. It just kind of happens: one moment he’s standing in front of Harold, the next he has to look up to catch Harold’s eye.

He doesn’t look up. Feels more right this way.

Even so, he can feel Harold’s gaze on him, warm and benevolent. “I thought as much,” Harold says with wry amusement. He’s still holding John’s hand, and without thinking John takes hold of Harold’s hand in return, bringing it to his lips. He hesitates just before making contact.

“Yes,” Harold says softly. “You may.”

Harold has strong, square hands, hands that build up rather than tear down. John distantly notes that he’s trembling as he presses a light kiss to Harold’s knuckles. He lets go of Harold’s hand directly after, unnerved, but clings selfishly to Harold’s leg.

“That seemed difficult.”

John swallows and forces himself to answer. “Yeah.” It was the kind of difficult that felt good, though, that took John’s heart and squeezed it to the point of pain.

Harold asks, “Would you find it easier to kiss other areas? Of course, you needn’t kiss anything at all unless you want to.” John steals a glance and sees Harold’s face pinkening.

The sight makes him bold. He lowers himself to lie almost flat on his stomach, raising his head to press his lips to the top of Harold’s shoe.

Harold is silent for a moment. John waits in a kind of calm that feels like standing in a place where lightning is about to strike. “That,” Harold says, slightly strangled, “is not the area I was thinking about.” Before John can get up and apologize, though, he feels pressure between his shoulder blades - Mr. Partridge’s cane, which Harold had near his desk following his showdown with Bennington’s brother. “That is not to say I am opposed.”

The pressure lets up, but John stays where he is. He feels almost too dizzy to kneel up. He rests his cheek against Harold’s shoe and closes his eyes, breathes in the smell of leather, and wool from Harold’s pants.

“I am deeply thankful for your trust,” Harold says.

John makes a wounded animal noise, because that’s all wrong. John is the one who’s grateful, so grateful it wants to come bursting out of his skin, so grateful he can never show Harold enough appreciation, not with a thousand years of lying prostrate and kissing his shoes.

“Well, I am,” Harold says - somewhat defensively. John looks up, and sees Harold looking at him, determined, bleary with fatigue. “I am thankful for your presence in my life, and admirous of your skill and your goodness– John?”

John clutches Harold’s ankle, hoping he’s not grabbing too hard, and letting his tears run over Harold’s shoe. He should be embarrassed, probably, but all he can focus on is the heart-stopping quality of Harold’s words, how they reach inside him and grab and, miraculously, still leave him - not only whole, but better than before.

There’s a grunt above him, and then there is a hand in his hair. “Please get up,” Harold says, “being bent up like this is not– oh, yes, much better,” as John hurriedly climbs to his knees. “Here.” He presses John’s face into his lap, his touch gentle and brooking no argument.

“Is that something you want, then?” Harold asks, some time later, when John has calmed down. “The kissing of shoes, I mean.”

“Yeah,” John says, hoarse. “It’s good.”

“Would you like to resume?”

Without further ado, John goes back to his previous position. He runs his lips over leather and laces, close-mouthed. He feels safe here, at Harold’s feet, paying proper obeisance. Showing Harold the nape of his neck, his back, his unguarded places.

“Oh, John,” Harold says softly. And, some time later, “I hate to interrupt you, but if we don’t get up I will fall asleep in another minute.”

John gets up then, still wrapped in that feeling of safety. It shelters him from the biting cold all the way to the safehouse, where Harold lets him inside and shows him the bedroom. “If you would care to join me,” Harold says, halting.

John wants. He wants it so bad, which is why he knows he can’t have it. “Not now,” he says. “When I’ve earned it.”

Harold’s face does something complicated, but he nods. “All right. There is a guest bedroom, of course, and a living room sofa….” He trails off as John lies down on the thick carpet, makes himself comfortable there. “Really?”

John pats the carpet. “Slept much worse places, Finch.” His expression feels brittle, like it’ll crack if he moves too much. “Unless you’re telling me to go to another room?”

Harold’s mouth purses. Slowly and creakily, he goes to his knees beside John, who starts sitting up in alarm. He doesn’t want Harold hurting himself over this, he’ll sleep wherever Harold says, it doesn’t matter.

Harold grabs him by the shoulders. He brings John up enough to lay a kiss on John’s forehead. Then he presses John down again, and again John goes, eyelids drooping. “Sleep well,” Harold murmurs.

John nods, and doesn’t wish Harold good night in return. He does realize that he can’t protect Harold from everything with his sheer presence, lying on the floor next to Harold’s bed like an oversized guard dog, but he clings to feeling as though he could.


End file.
